Hell's Knights
Page 5
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When I’ve freshened up, thrown the sheets into the washing machine and put my clothes into the old wooden dresser, I head downstairs. Time to tackle this kitchen. I spend the next hour cleaning, gagging and cursing my father for being so incredibly lazy. Seriously, the man could at least invest in a dishwasher to save us all some pain. This kitchen is a pigsty, the entire house is a pigsty. I hear the front door open just as I am giving myself a pep talk about tackling the fridge and handling whatever has died in there. I turn, and see Jackson walking in. He stops when he sees me dissecting his kitchen with a scowl. He tosses his helmet down and shrugs off his leather jacket.
“Have you ever heard of doing dishes?” I say, crossing my arms.
He shrugs, giving me a ‘who cares’ kind of expression. “I do the dishes when I need to do the dishes. I've got better things to do in my life.”
I throw him a sarcastic expression. “I couldn't imagine what could possibly be more important than dishes.”
I'm pretty sure I see his lips twitch, which surprises me. I imagine that Jackson was a complete looker in his day. In fact, I have no doubt about it. While older now, I don’t doubt he still attracts plenty of female attention. He must have had no brains in his head, though, the day he decided my mother was worth a shot. I walk around the kitchen counter, and stop in front of him.
“What’ve you got to eat in this joint?”
He waves a dismissive hand, and drops his ass onto the couch. “You already know I have nothing. I don’t cook. I don’t shop. That’s what take out’s for. Plus, I’m at the compound more than I’m here. If you want food, get it yourself. I’m sure you can sort it out.”
“Jackson, if you want me to make food and eat, then you should give me some money. Being my father and all…”
He grins at me like that's completely amusing to him. “You wanna be my daughter, you get things the way any daughter does - by working for it. You want money, go and earn it. You want me to buy food, then you do something to make me feel as though you deserve it. It ain’t a pretty walk in the park here, princess. Nothin’ comes easy, you ought to learn that.”
I walk over, feeling my blood boil, feeling my anger getting the better of me. “You think I don't know how to support myself? You think I don’t know how to work for what I want? You know I haven’t had a beautiful life. Nothing came easily to me, not a single, damned thing. I’ll earn every morsel that goes into my mouth, you piece of shit.”
Jackson stares at me, completely and utterly confused, and a little stunned. It takes him a moment to get a stony expression back on his face. “I get you had a hard life. I get you have your own back, and you do what you gotta to survive. I get that you’re here temporarily, and you don’t want to be, but don’t think you can come into my house speakin’ to me the way you just did. I’ll boot you out on your fuckin’ ass.”
I storm over, throwing my hands on my hips. He shouldn't be getting a reaction like this; it’s not worth it, and yet here I am about to explode at the one man that is taking me in. The one man who is likely going to be my only protection. “If you want to speak to me like that, I’ll speak to you like that. If you don’t want me here, you shouldn’t have asked me to stay. I'll find somewhere else, and I’ll survive doing it. If you’ve got such a problem with this,” I say indicating myself and the room in general, “then tell me and I’ll pack my shit now and leave. I don’t need you, as much as you don’t fucking need me.”
I lunge forward, gripping my backpack, but Jackson is faster. He’s up, hand wrapped around my arm before I even get a chance to blink. He pulls me into his face, his eyes are flaring with anger. “Girl,” he says in a rough angry tone, “you might be my daughter, and you might have had a tough life, but you ever speak to me like that again, I’ll put you on your fuckin’ ass.”
Swallowing, I force the tears back that well in my eyes. I snatch my arm from Jackson’s grip and heave my next words out. “I know you don’t want me here. I know you don’t like me disrupting your life, but do you think I like it either? Do you think I asked for any of this? You want to put me on my ass? Go right ahead. It’s not like it hasn’t been done many times before. If you want me out, Jackson, speak up. I’ll leave. I’ll walk out and find my way, because I always do. Even if it means I find it in the only way I learned how. I’ll do what I have to, to survive and protect myself. I’m so incredibly sorry that I was thrown upon you. Perhaps next time you don’t want children in your life, you should keep your dick wrapped.”
Then I turn and rush up the stairs, just before the hot tears spill out of my eyelids.
~*~
I hear Jackson moving around downstairs for a while after my outburst. At least he didn’t come up and kick me out. I curl up on the old, squishy bed, wrapped in my pajamas, and think about which move I should take next. I really do need to keep my mouth shut, or I’ll have no next move. Jackson clearly doesn’t take any shit, and maybe that’s a good thing, but he needs to understand I don’t either. Maybe I inherited it from him. I slip off my bed, curious, wanting to ask the one question that I’ve been wanting an answer to for such a long time. I don’t even know if Jackson will talk to me, but it’s worth a shot.
I walk out of my room, treading down the hall quietly. I creep down the stairs and peer into the living room. Jackson is on the couch, pizza in hand, beer in his lap, football on the television. I watch him for a long moment, still in a slight amount of shock that this man is actually my father. I always knew he was a biker. I always knew he had a hard life, but I guess seeing him in front of me is still surreal. I grip the railings on the stairs, and decide I won’t move any further down than this, just in case he decides to get snappy at me.
“Have you ever heard of doing dishes?” I say, crossing my arms.
He shrugs, giving me a ‘who cares’ kind of expression. “I do the dishes when I need to do the dishes. I've got better things to do in my life.”
I throw him a sarcastic expression. “I couldn't imagine what could possibly be more important than dishes.”
I'm pretty sure I see his lips twitch, which surprises me. I imagine that Jackson was a complete looker in his day. In fact, I have no doubt about it. While older now, I don’t doubt he still attracts plenty of female attention. He must have had no brains in his head, though, the day he decided my mother was worth a shot. I walk around the kitchen counter, and stop in front of him.
“What’ve you got to eat in this joint?”
He waves a dismissive hand, and drops his ass onto the couch. “You already know I have nothing. I don’t cook. I don’t shop. That’s what take out’s for. Plus, I’m at the compound more than I’m here. If you want food, get it yourself. I’m sure you can sort it out.”
“Jackson, if you want me to make food and eat, then you should give me some money. Being my father and all…”
He grins at me like that's completely amusing to him. “You wanna be my daughter, you get things the way any daughter does - by working for it. You want money, go and earn it. You want me to buy food, then you do something to make me feel as though you deserve it. It ain’t a pretty walk in the park here, princess. Nothin’ comes easy, you ought to learn that.”
I walk over, feeling my blood boil, feeling my anger getting the better of me. “You think I don't know how to support myself? You think I don’t know how to work for what I want? You know I haven’t had a beautiful life. Nothing came easily to me, not a single, damned thing. I’ll earn every morsel that goes into my mouth, you piece of shit.”
Jackson stares at me, completely and utterly confused, and a little stunned. It takes him a moment to get a stony expression back on his face. “I get you had a hard life. I get you have your own back, and you do what you gotta to survive. I get that you’re here temporarily, and you don’t want to be, but don’t think you can come into my house speakin’ to me the way you just did. I’ll boot you out on your fuckin’ ass.”
I storm over, throwing my hands on my hips. He shouldn't be getting a reaction like this; it’s not worth it, and yet here I am about to explode at the one man that is taking me in. The one man who is likely going to be my only protection. “If you want to speak to me like that, I’ll speak to you like that. If you don’t want me here, you shouldn’t have asked me to stay. I'll find somewhere else, and I’ll survive doing it. If you’ve got such a problem with this,” I say indicating myself and the room in general, “then tell me and I’ll pack my shit now and leave. I don’t need you, as much as you don’t fucking need me.”
I lunge forward, gripping my backpack, but Jackson is faster. He’s up, hand wrapped around my arm before I even get a chance to blink. He pulls me into his face, his eyes are flaring with anger. “Girl,” he says in a rough angry tone, “you might be my daughter, and you might have had a tough life, but you ever speak to me like that again, I’ll put you on your fuckin’ ass.”
Swallowing, I force the tears back that well in my eyes. I snatch my arm from Jackson’s grip and heave my next words out. “I know you don’t want me here. I know you don’t like me disrupting your life, but do you think I like it either? Do you think I asked for any of this? You want to put me on my ass? Go right ahead. It’s not like it hasn’t been done many times before. If you want me out, Jackson, speak up. I’ll leave. I’ll walk out and find my way, because I always do. Even if it means I find it in the only way I learned how. I’ll do what I have to, to survive and protect myself. I’m so incredibly sorry that I was thrown upon you. Perhaps next time you don’t want children in your life, you should keep your dick wrapped.”
Then I turn and rush up the stairs, just before the hot tears spill out of my eyelids.
~*~
I hear Jackson moving around downstairs for a while after my outburst. At least he didn’t come up and kick me out. I curl up on the old, squishy bed, wrapped in my pajamas, and think about which move I should take next. I really do need to keep my mouth shut, or I’ll have no next move. Jackson clearly doesn’t take any shit, and maybe that’s a good thing, but he needs to understand I don’t either. Maybe I inherited it from him. I slip off my bed, curious, wanting to ask the one question that I’ve been wanting an answer to for such a long time. I don’t even know if Jackson will talk to me, but it’s worth a shot.
I walk out of my room, treading down the hall quietly. I creep down the stairs and peer into the living room. Jackson is on the couch, pizza in hand, beer in his lap, football on the television. I watch him for a long moment, still in a slight amount of shock that this man is actually my father. I always knew he was a biker. I always knew he had a hard life, but I guess seeing him in front of me is still surreal. I grip the railings on the stairs, and decide I won’t move any further down than this, just in case he decides to get snappy at me.
